


Perfection of Duality

by the_irish_mayhem



Series: Falling in Reverse [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Multi, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Strike Team Delta, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irish_mayhem/pseuds/the_irish_mayhem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After she is brought into SHIELD by Hawkeye, the Black Widow learns how to be human, and two damaged people learn what true partnership really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here. Hope you're as excited as I am. This chapter isn't as long or as thorough as you're used to from me, but trust me, it is all a part of the plan.
> 
> This story spans the 8 years Clint and Natasha were partners, and will conclude prior to the events of The Avengers in 2012. It is NOT canon compliant with several of the events of Age of Ultron.

  _Learning to trust is one of life's most difficult tasks. -Isaac Watt_

* * *

**I: Genesis**

Clint always notices how the Undergound tends to smell like musty laundry. Musty laundry and sand, actually, considering the number of in-training agents who have no time to do laundry and their locale in the middle of the Sonoran desert.

The Underground is being used as a temporary base of operations while the Hub is being renovated, and quite honestly, he can't wait for them to move base of operations to the mystical 'Helicarrier' he knows is in production. He's seen it. Not the whole thing, granted, but enough pieces to be able to put it together. Schematics and prototype models too. That was back when Fury told him things, when he was just Hawkeye, the best shot in SHIELD and the shadowy agency's top agent. Now however, things have changed. Fury's a secretive guy, and that's not even when Barton's ass is on the line.

The Council wants to see him, and that's never a good sign.

He had only had one meeting with the Council when he brought the Black Widow into SHIELD, but the reaming he got from them was enough for a lifetime. Normally he's not one to be affected by the words of some holographic pencil-pushers, but there was talk of taking his badge, throwing him into the Fridge, turning him back over to the Military Police to answer for his crimes he'd run from all those years ago, convening a tribunal to decide whether or not to execute him. Clint doesn't like to acknowledge his fear, but that Council meeting was one time where he can say with absolute certainty that he was _afraid_.

A member from each developed nation sits upon the Council since SHIELD isn't supposed to be directly affiliated with any particular country. While SHIELD usually only deals with no more than six of those members directly, the entirety of the Council still makes the decisions. If his instincts are right, he and the Black Widow have been a hot topic of conversation these past six months.

The Council communications room is the inner sanctum of Fury's office, not that Fury treats it that way. Calls the Council members 'sanctimonious dicks who cannot pull their heads out of their own asses' whenever they are not listening (and once when they still had audio communication. That had been awkward.) He used to vocally agree with Fury on those counts, but since that meeting... shit, they literally scared him out of his wits and reminded him that they are SHIELD's ruling body. They could make his life a living hell with the snap of their fingers and not bat an eye. He's not eager to get back on their immediate radar anytime soon.

There's no one else in the hallway leading to Fury's office as Agent Barton approaches. Most SHIELD personnel tend to stay out of Fury's way; the eyepatch look helps with that air of intimidation. The halls are sleek, with steel post supports along the walls, and fluorescent lights beating down from above.

Inside Fury's office, the one-eyed SHIELD director sits, obviously waiting for him. "Your spider finished training at the Camp today."

He'd initially attempted to reprimand anyone for calling the Black Widow 'his' since at least 98% of SHIELD thought they were fucking and that the only reason he didn't put an arrow through her skull is because she is excellent on her back and on her knees. He still isn't entirely sure why he hadn't. Killed her, that is.

He'd had an arrow nocked, bullet in the chamber with her in the crosshairs multiple times, the perfect shot lined up. And he hadn't taken it. And he could have. So many shots, just given up. Hawkeye is always decisive. Doesn't pussyfoot around an action if he believes it to be the right one.

That final, fateful mission to Italy still hangs heavy in his memory. It was less than a year ago, and the faces of Wendell and Gail still play preeminent roles in his nightmares. He can still hear Gail's scream of anguish and rage when the Widow shot Wendell. Can still see the Widow dropping his agents without a second's hesitation. (They still haven't gotten their crests on the wall of fallen agents. The ceremony is supposed to be tomorrow.) She'd been beset on all sides by Russian agents before that, bearing those red stars on their shoulders and with the intentions of dragging the Widow back to the Red Room alive.

She made it quite clear as she killed all of them that she would escape or die trying.

She'd been some sort of wild animal when she approached her, feral, bloody, and ready to strike out again.

Then she'd accepted his offer after they'd trekked through Milan's streets, watching each other's backs and fighting their way to safety. It was a tentative bond of trust, one that was tested shortly after she'd agreed to join SHIELD.

**Six Months Ago**

_"You did_ what _?"_

It isn't often that Phil Coulson loses his cool. His level-headedness is why he's a good agent and is part of the reason Fury keeps him so close to command. But even without being able to see him, Clint is able to discern exactly how badly Phil has just exploded by how loudly he yelled (is still yelling) into the phone.

_"For fuck's sake, Barton! I thought you were smarter than this!"_

Clint sighs. He'd known this would be difficult. But he'd made her a promise, and he would follow through. "Coulson, I need you to just listen-"

 _"No, you fucking listen you stubborn, stupid, insolent_ child _. She killed two SHIELD agents right in front of you! And you did nothing!"_

"That's not-"

 _"Interrupt me again, Agent, and I_ will _have your badge."_ Shit, he is not fucking around. _"Clint, that infraction alone is enough to call for dismissal. Hell, that's grounds for a goddamn trial. What were you... What were you thinking? I thought I trained you better than this."_

He hears the implication even though Coulson refuses to say it plainly. "For god's sake, I'm not fucking her."

 _"Trust me, I won't be the only one who thinks so."_ He feels a brief glimmer of hope. Maybe Phil isn't as opposed to this development as he seems. _"Is... Is she with you right now?"_

He looks over to the Widow, sitting on the couch in her ruined disguise and watching his conversation intently. "Yeah."

She offers then, "Tell him I can give SHIELD intelligence not just on Russia, but on many of their targets."

"She says she can offer you guys intelligence."

He hears Phil scoff. _"Likely one hundred percent truthful intelligence, no doubt."_

"Now you're just being childish."

 _"And you're being naive. We know that malevolent groups in Russia who have very,_ very _awful designs on SHIELD have sought the Black Widow's skills before. Who's to say they aren't doing so now? God, just—just for one second, try to be the SHIELD agent I thought you were, and imagine what would happen if she gained access to one of our bases. Imagine if she released one of her computer viruses in the Hub or got access to the Fridge."_

"You could've said the same thing about me," Clint points out. "I worked for the highest bidder before. Hell, I worked against SHIELD several times. You know that. The only difference is that you were in the field to see it."

_"And your point, Barton? We had your records from the Army. You showed signs of remorse, of looking for another way out."_

"Yeah, and so has she. You haven't been out here, Phil. I have.

There is an emphatic pause before Coulson speaks again. _"You didn't kill any of our people."_

"It's not like SHIELD hasn't worked with people who were our enemies before, or did you miss all the SSR history in your training? Project Paperclip? I'm asking you to trust me."

_"It's not you that I don't trust."_

"Pardon me for not accepting that glowing commendation, but I really think it is me you're not trusting here."

There's a long pause, but Clint knows Phil is still on the line. _"I need to make some calls. Don't_ _—_ _"_ he breaks off with a frustrated sigh. _"Don't go anywhere. Don't talk to anyone. Wait for my word."_

Phil hangs up and Clint is left waiting.

"I'm assuming that didn't go as you had planned," she deadpanned from the couch.

It almost made him smile. "Not exactly planned, per se, but... I'd kind of hoped, though." He sighs, not sure where to put his feet. "He'll come around," he finally says. "Fury definitely will. You're an asset, one that we could use." She doesn't seem to like the word "asset" being applied to her, but she doesn't comment on it.

"He made a good point," she says. "I killed your people."

He closes his eyes. He doesn't want to think about them right now. ( _How did she hear that?_ ) "Yeah. I'm not exactly known for my team spirit."

Her brow furrows. "So, you meant for them to-"

"No," he interrupts firmly. "God no."

"Then I don't understand—" she cuts herself off, and descends into silence, something obviously heavy on her mind. He wants to know what it is, but he doesn't know how to pry it out of her. Even if he did, he has a feeling she wouldn't answer.

"What should I call you?" he asks instead, abruptly changing the subject.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Your name. People call me Hawkeye, but that's just my call sign."

Her face doesn't betray much, but her tone is confused, if a bit curious. "You... you have another name?"

"Yeah. Do you go by your birth name?"

"Not for a long time," she answered. Her fingers rise to her temple, eyes closing in a classic indicator of a headache.

"Should I call you Black Widow? Bit of a mouthful, but I can manage it, I think."

"Natasha," she says suddenly. Her fingers fall from her head, twining together on her lap. She doesn't fidget. "No one's ever called me Natasha before. I like it."

He feels like he's made some sort of break through with her, which does make a smile appear on his face. "Nice to meet you, Natasha."

She looks down, hiding some sort of small smirk on her lips. It only makes his grin grow. When she meets his eyes again. "You said you have another name?" He nods. "What is it?"

"Clint Barton."

"Clint Barton," she repeats, quietly, as though she is saving it to memory. Her smile comes back then. It's small, but it's a victory. "Nice to meet you, Clint."

His phone disrupts their exchange, and anticipating his handler, he answers, "What do you have for me, Coulson?"

 _"Not Coulson,"_ comes the voice of Nick Fury over the line. Clint automatically straightens his posture.

"Director Fury."

_"Agent Barton. Your handler just gave me some very interesting news."_

"Sir, before you rush to judgement, she will make an incredible agent. You know it."

_"My knowing it isn't going to be an issue. I've talked to Pierce about doing exactly what you've just done on several occasions. The Council has debated it, even."_

He feels the hope again, and he doesn't know why he's so inextricably tied up in this woman. "So they're open to it?"

Fury sighs. _"Why do you think we kept giving her a Black priority status, Barton? No, they never approved of a plan to get her on our side, but the fact that it was debated makes me think they could be receptive."_

"That's the spirit," Clint says weakly. "What's the procedure here, sir?"

_"You remember what Coulson did for you?"_

Shit. Oh _shit_. "Yeah," he answers.

_"Do it. Someone will be there to receive you once you arrive. I'll be there as soon as I am able."_

He closes his eyes, swearing emphatically in his mind once more before he gives his affirmative answer and hangs up.

"That seemed to go better," Natasha observes. She cocks her head. "But you're troubled."

"Look, Natasha," he says, his tone already apologetic, "I made you a promise. I'm a man who does his damnest to make sure he keeps his word." His quiver is still strung around his back, and he reaches one hand back for it. She tenses, her fingers whitening and shoulders straightening. He raises his free hand in a calming gesture, and says, "Hey, I'm not going to kill you. Trust me, I've had plenty of better opportunities before now." He gently pries a very specific arrowhead from his selection, thankful he'd chosen to fully stock before they began their mission. "But I can't show you where the base is. I can't just blindfold you, either."

Understanding dawns on her face, and she shuts down faster than a blink. He grits his teeth, determined to not let his frustration over his loss of progress with her show. She says bluntly, defensively, "You want to drug me."

"Yes." The arrowhead comes out of his quiver and he brings it in front of him. Her eyes track his arm the whole way. "It's standard procedure when you bring in a, uh, potentially hostile asset."

She doesn't respond, her breathing even and deep but louder than it was before.

"There's not really much of a choice here, but I want to give you one." He rolls the knockout arrowhead between his fingers. It's smaller than most of his arrowheads. Lighter too, mostly so that whoever was on the receiving end wouldn't end up with the arrow through their neck rather than with an injection. "I wasn't given one when they brought me in, and I was pissed about it for weeks." ( _But then, he was angry about a lot of things._ )

"What is it?" she asks, standing and walking towards him, but still looking like she was considering making a dive out the window before she let him near her with that thing.

"5 CCs of… ah, shit, what did Sci Ops give me… the key components were Fentanyl, I think, mixed with something Benzilate." There are many things that Clint cares very much about in his training, but the proper chemical names of incapacitating agents are not one of them.

She hesitates before saying, "I've… I think I have a tolerance for those."

"A tolerance?"

"Chemical training," she says in way of explanation, as if it's commonplace. "I'm pretty sure Quinuquidnyl Benzilate is what's in there, and I know Fentanyl doesn't affect me."

Clint's eyes widen of their own accord. This is one of SHIELD's most potent knockout drugs for humans. "So will this not work at all?"

Her lips purse, and he can practically feel her defensiveness radiating off of her. "No matter how much training we did with the Benzilate, I was never able to acclimate. I don't _—_ " She takes a breath, steeling herself. "I don't like not being in control of my body."

This is going nowhere fast. "Natasha, I can't bring you to the base fully lucid. You either get injected with this, or we probably both get shot before we make it to the front door."

He sees the muscles in her jaw tick. She doesn't like this. "Fine." She strides forward and snatches the arrowhead out of his palm. She examines it a moment before saying, "Concussion from the arrow triggers the plunger. Nice."

"Thanks." He tries not to preen. He loves his arrows, but now doesn't seem like the time.

She rolls up her sleeve, and without looking up says, "Don't let me kill anyone when I come out of this, please." With that warning, she pushes the needle into her skin and presses down on the plunger.

* * *

At SHIELD headquarters, Fury hangs up from his call with Barton.

"So we're set?" asks Phil from where he leans on the wall.

Fury nods. "Barton's following standard protocol and is going to take her to the Underground. Fisher made sure the information is going to be sent through the proper channels. Now, we watch his security program and monitor all outgoing communications. Hopefully the mole will root themselves out."

"And if they decide to take her back by force at the Underground?" Phil asks. Nick can tell that not telling Barton about the plan is grating on him. Regardless of the tension between the two of them, Coulson cares very much about the young agent he trained.

"Then lets hope that your boy still has that knack for getting himself out of impossible situations."

* * *

**Present**

He knew he made the right decision to invite her into SHIELD when he heard that she made a fellow recruit cry in the first day of interrogation tactics without laying a single finger on him. That had made him laugh.

"Has it been six months already?" he asks

He doesn't sit down. You don't sit unless Fury tells you to. "Don't play coy, Barton."

"Wasn't trying to, sir." He honestly hasn't noticed. Well, kind of hasn't. It seems like he hasn't had a moment's rest, going on back-to-back missions in the last six months. He has no doubt it was either Fury's or the Council's decision to try to keep him out of their hair while they dealt with his actions. "Also, not trying to be a pest or anything, but aren't we supposed to be talking to the Council?"

Fury does't look amused or even move a muscle. "They are all still rather sore about my decision to not shoot you when you literally brought the Black Widow to our front fucking doorstep."

Barton protests, "I followed procedure— _"_

"Don't say a single word, Barton. You won't be having any communications with them in the near future—"

"Thank God."

There's that glare. Doubly potent the fewer eyes you have, apparently.

"Apologies, sir."

Fury sighs. "You weren't wrong to bring her in. She's passed every test we've put in front of her, and not just passed. We've never had such high scores in any category. We had to create a new scale to accommodate her espionage scores. She left many of your scores in the dust." Barton doesn't hesitate to smirk a little at that. He knew she would do well. "But honestly, her aptitude didn't surprise anyone. She was trained as a covert spy and assassin since she was a child. What we don't know, however, is how she will react in the field." Fury leans back in his chair, examining Barton carefully. "To SHIELD at large, she is still a loose cannon. We don't know if she's going to betray us at the first opportunity, if she's planning on playing the long game with us, or, hell, if she's actually doing this because you made her see the light. The Council made the decision to partner you with her for all of your missions for the foreseeable future."

Okay, that was not what he expected when Fury opened his mouth. Probably should have expected something like this though. "And since when does the Council deal in the dirty little day-to-day affairs like assigning agents partners and missions?"

"Since you decided to bring in the Black Widow instead of killing her, that's when. Barton, I know you've talked your way out of a lot. You talked your way out of reprimand for bringing her in. I don't have to be a SHIELD agent to know that you see similarities between your life and hers, but what you did is unprecedented. She was a Black priority target. Even you didn't get that high on our list before we took you in. Everyone else with a Black priority status is either dead or locked up so deep in the Fridge even Fisher can't find them.

"The way the Council sees it, this kills two birds with one stone. She flips on us, we know where her loyalties lie and you are the only one caught in the crossfire."

"And what if she doesn't flip on us?" Barton suggests.

Fury smiles then, "Then I have no doubt that STRIKE Team Delta will become one of the greatest assets SHIELD has ever had." He stands. "I have a Quinjet leaving for the Camp in a half and hour. Time to go meet with your new partner." 

* * *

Her quarters are different.

Everything is different, really.

Her living assignment is at a base called the Camp in the Canadian Rockies. She's not sure of the exact coordinates and that sets her on edge until she realizes she never knew the exact coordinates of... of the Red Room either.

An agent had showed her to her room, a bit put off by her lack of personal belongings, but polite nonetheless. It's a change, having someone at SHIELD besides Hawkeye—Clint—offer her courtesy. It isn't something she expects, never has, and it's an interesting sensation. Having a smile directed at her. At _her_. Kind words.

The quarters are as spartan as the ones she grew up with, but these are different. She has a window, an actual window that leads outside and has the bright mountain sun streaming through it. There's much more space. The bed isn't bolted to the floor, and there is an armchair. ( _What on earth is she supposed to do with that?_ ) There's a small kitchen. She has a _whole_ _bathroom_ , not just a toilet at the base of her bed. There's a closet with several SHIELD uniforms inside. "These are... These are mine?" she had asked the agent.

She had nodded, still with the polite smile. "Yes. I'm sure they taught you all about uniform protocol during your training."

She's more astounded by the fact that these things are _hers_. She remembers her plans for her Widow's Bites, suddenly, still trapped beneath the carpet in her room back... back where she came from. If she can have these uniforms... maybe she can have those too.

There's so many things she just has now. Free time. Freedom to come and go as she pleases. Clothing. She's been told she's soon going to receive her badge.

She hears a knock on her door, and she tenses and falls into a defensive stance on instinct, but reminds herself that she is trying to make a new start here. A new name for herself. She goes to answer the door, determined to try to smile at the agent who had been polite to her.

She finds Hawkeye on the other side. "What are you doing here?" she asks. She hasn't seen him in months, not since he first brought her to SHIELD.

"Heard you got assigned to the Camp. Thought I'd pop by and say hello."

She wonders why, but instead says, "Oh."

He doesn't seem put out by her lack of reaction. "You're lucky you got living quarters here. Most of the time they have rookie agents do a stint guarding the Fridge and that's a live-in job. I had to do it once a couple years back. It sucked."

She tries to remember her training (from before) about how to hold a conversation like this, but she has no identity to fall back on. She can't be Natalia or Maria or anyone else. She has to be Natasha Romanoff, someone she's never been before and has no idea how to be because she has no identity profile and she never realized how much she needed those profiles before.

Clint continues as if he hadn't noticed her pause. She's grateful. "So how was training? You got the same six-month period that I did. For some people it's longer."

The direct question comes as a relief. She knows how to relay information. "Effective at teaching techniques, although many of the agents in training were not as capable as I am."

He smiles. "No shit. It can really kick your ass, but you look no worse for the wear."

"I've had worse," she answers.

That dims his smile a bit, and she worries she's said something wrong. "Of course you have," he says quietly. "I actually had a reason for stopping by," he says then returning to normal, "SHIELD has decided to make us partners. Thought I'd give you the word in person before you got the official assignment."

"Partners," she repeats, the word tasting strange on her tongue. "I've never... I've never worked with anyone before." She's had to involve people in her work, people who her handlers directed her towards, but she's always relied on herself to complete her missions. That's the way she knows how to do this.

Hawkeye shrugs. "I don't either, really. I never did, not until..." _Italy_ , she hears, even though he doesn't say it. "Yeah, I just don't work with people much. We're kind of in the same boat with that one."

She remembers the courtesy of the agent who showed her to her room and decides to take a page out of her book. Why not? Natasha Romanoff is a blank slate. It's about time she starts creating who she wants to be. She sticks out a hand. "I look forward to working with you."

He eyes the hand as though it's a snake for a moment, but he quickly grins that easy, lopsided grin of his, and takes her hand in his. "Me too, partner."


	2. Exposed Wires

**II: Exposed Wires**

**Present**

One of the first things Natasha learns about Clint Barton is that the man can _talk_. His voice fills the void between them as they walk to the gym. "It'd be good for you to get a handle on using my bow, too," he says, continuing their (his, really) conversation about learning each other's fighting styles so that they can better accommodate each other while in the field. "I've got a couple, but I imagine you'll mostly have to get comfortable with my recurve. I only use the compound for sniping. And I've made a ton of different arrows that you should probably get familiar with too."

"You've made…?" She doesn't quite know why that slipped out, but the image of her Widow's Bites, the plans that she'd tucked under the rug in her room back _there_ , leaps to the forefront of her mind.

He nods. "Well, Sci Ops helps me a bit since I'm not exactly an engineer, but yeah. They can probably make you whatever you want as long as you have some sort of plan. Or if you find one that really likes you, then they'll just make you stuff just because," he finishes with a chuckle.

"Oh," is all she says in reply. She remembers the plans by heart, had traced over the smudged graphite countless times while she laid in bed waiting for her eyes to grow heavy.

"You got anything you want them to make?" he asks, apparently noticing her thoughtfulness.

"I—no. Or..." Just like deciding she wanted to be Natasha Romanoff, she realizes that she can maybe use this freedom too. "I had plans for... for these weaponized, power-chamber gauntlets. When I was younger."

Hawkeye nods, smiling. "Sweet. You should draw up some plans, and then I can introduce you to the Science Squad. They're huge nerds. One of them will want to make it for you just to prove that they can."

Exhilaration is the only word to describe what she's feeling. Exhilaration as pure as running through the woods on her way to Surgut, the rush that came along with being out from under their thumb for the night. She feels a smile cross her face. "I would like that."

He seems pleased by her response. "Great."

They trail off into silence as Barton shows her through a door that leads to a large space that is all too familiar. Dark steel support beams run across a relatively low ceiling. Long fluorescent lights drop from the beams, lighting the rest of the room in a white glow. Closest to the doorway, a black-cushioned section of the concrete floor plays host to two shiai-jo squares, signified by red orange flooring. To the right of the shiai-jo, there is a boxing ring, done in the same black and red orange color scheme. Between the shiai-jo and the boxing ring hang a variety of different punching bags—from heavy and teardrop bags to double-end and body bags. A row of steel support beams separate the shiai-jo and boxing ring from the amenities further back in the gym. Another cushioned section of the floor is ringed by muay thai banana bags, and beyond that are two octagonal mixed martial arts rings.

"This isn't the main gym," he explains. "I just figured this one would be less crowded." And he's apparently made a correct prediction—the gym is empty save for them.

She bristles. "I don't fear their scrutiny."

He jerks his head towards one of the shiai-jo, and doesn't respond to her comment.

They perform a quick warmup, and Natasha begins to slide into something more worn and familiar. She may not have the best interpersonal skills, but she knows how to fight. That is one thing that did not change when she became Natasha Romanoff.

"Shall we begin?" she asks.

"En garde," he says, playful, and that—that catches her off-guard. Is this supposed to be fun? It's always been—

He strikes, quick as a cobra, just a tight right hook that she barely manages to deflect in time because of her distraction. Then she lets muscle memory take over.

She uses his punch's momentum to gain a grip on his elbow and turns so that she can drive her right shoulder into his chest. She pulls his arm over her shoulder, attempting to use his destabilized balance to throw him over her shoulder. He doesn't fight against it as she lowers her center of gravity and pulls until he is flipped over her shoulder and landing with a thud on his back.

She makes a move to end the fight when she finds that she can't move her arm. Barton sweeps her legs out from under her before she can counter and lands with an embarrassingly heavy exhale when she hits the mat. Quicker than she was expecting, Barton moves over her and uses his leg to trap her neck and arms. She's pinned in the space between his knee and his ankle, and while it doesn't cut off her breathing, it's enough to make her grind her teeth.

"So, round one goes to me?" he asks cheekily.

She finds herself responding, just as cheekily, "Not on your life."

His leg provides a convenient counterweight for her to push her hips and legs up into the air. His body is high enough on hers so that she can get almost her whole torso off the ground, just high enough so that she can cross her ankles over his neck. When he sees what she's doing, he says, "You have got to be kidding me—" but before her thoughts catch up with her body, she is already moving on instinct and pulling with her legs so that his back slams to the floor, releasing her neck and arms.

She sits up, not releasing his head from the hold she has on it, and grabs his arm and twists. It's an awkward move from being near his legs to pinning his arm with her torso, but she manages it, making it so her body is perpendicular to his.

That's when she realizes he's laughing.

She barely notices the tap to her leg signifying that he yields.

She briefly worries that she's made him hit his head too hard against the floor and has resulted in a concussion, but he ceases laughing and gets up without issue. "Thought I had you there, but you ninja'd me."

Natasha lets herself relax, just a bit. In the time she's known him, even before they were allies, he's been somewhat teasing. Sarcastic and light-hearted in a way that now pushes her to respond in kind. "You had me under the impression that you were good at hand-to-hand combat for a moment."

Nothing she's seen so far prepares her for the abject delight on his face. "Did you just trash-talk me, Romanoff?"

She doubles down. "Trash-talk would imply an inflation of the truth."

He snorts. "Your English is pretty good, but next time, try to not be so formal about it. Makes it lose it's punch a little."

She pauses, thinking. "So I should've said something more like, 'It's not trash-talk if it's true?'"

Barton chuckles, pointing at her for emphasis. "That's it. Soon you'll be insulting people left and right and it won't sound like Margaret Thatcher is trying to chirp me." He's lost her, and he must see that on her face because he shakes his head. "Forget it. Shall we proceed with our next bout of fisticuffs, Madam Romanoff?"

It takes her a moment. "You're making fun of me."

"Only a little bit."

* * *

This, Clint thinks, is a good sign.

As they continue to spar, he starts to loosen up with his barbs a little bit more, and much to his satisfaction, she starts to throw them back at him with more and more gusto. He has never seen her smile so much. She even laughs, working on her trash-talk in more colloquial English and even teasing him when he loses (which is more often than he wins. Which is fair, because he's no slouch at hand-to-hand, but he's no Black Widow. He figures he'll settle the score on the range later on.)

They're in the middle of an intense bout, both drenched in sweat but having a pretty good time. It's been a while since Clint's been able to fight like this. His last mission was almost entirely sniping and then running like hell trying to not get shot or blown up.

They're both competitive people, Clint notes; as their fights progress, and they become more attuned each other's fighting styles, they become more intense and well-matched.

Well, Coulson and Fury were certainly not lying when they said she made them set new grading scales for almost every single one of their aptitude tests.

But in the midst of this fight, he sees the door open, and his stomach drops. Natasha is facing towards him and away from the door and doesn't seem to hear it open for four agents, two men and two women, who are in their formal dress uniforms.

He grits his teeth because he knows why they're here.

Natasha lands a particularly hard blow to his midsection since she was clearly anticipating some evasive action or counter from him. It hurts, a bit, but he's too busy trying to work out a way to defuse the situation to pay much attention to it at the moment.

"You made a mistake," she tells him.

"He's not the mistake here," calls one of the male agents and Natasha whirls to face the intrusion. He notices her tense up again, the easy relaxation that came with letting her guard down gone without a trace. Clint vaguely recognizes the intruders from a class of rookies, but he'd be hard pressed to remember their names. The agent who spoke seems to be their implicitly-agreed upon leader, as the other three seem to flank him as he takes point. Clint spies the name on the tag.

_J. Corden._

The name, he knows it. Corden.

Remembers like a bolt of lightning Gail and Wendell talking about a few of their friends. One of them they called Cordy.

Corden turns his attention to Clint. "I never thought I'd see the day the great Hawkeye would turn traitor. Was getting your dick wet worth the lives of two good agents?"

There's no doubt in his mind now that this is the Cordy Gail and Wendell had spoken of. The funny-man of the group, always ready for good pranks, and with a heart of gold. Supposedly. Clint sees no evidence of that heart of gold just now, but it's hard to blame him. Still, he's incensed at the accusation.

"Watch your tone, greenhorn," he snaps, moving to stand beside a stock still Natasha.

Corden doesn't listen. "I honestly don't know what's worse, the fact that she killed them, or you're defending her."

Clint bristles. "It's generally considered bad form to run your mouth about things you don't have any idea about."

They come to a stop just outside of the shiai-jo. "We don't need to know anything else," says one of the women. _J. Radford._ "Their crest ceremony was today and you weren't even there. What kind of CO doesn't go to the crest ceremony of agents who fell under his command?"

"More like fell _because of_ his command," accuses another. _M. Ramón._

Clint's about to respond, but Natasha beats him to it. "If you're going to blame anyone for killing your friends, blame me." Her voice is strong, clear, and crisp, but lacking any of the emotion he'd been able to draw out of her just minutes before.

"That's not a fucking problem, commie whore," says the last one. _K. Quinn._

A muscle in Natasha's jaw tics. He wonders if he's going to have to physically intervene. For all he feels that he knows about her because of his years on mission to find and kill her, this is uncharted territory, and she's always had the capacity to surprise him. (An alleyway in KwaDukuza with her knees pulled up to her chest and tears streaming down her face.)

"Hey," Clint snaps. "Watch yourself."

Corden replies, "Go fuck yourself, Hawkeye. Or go fuck your double-agent slut here."

Natasha speaks again. "Did you merely come here to hurl insults, or was there another purpose for your presence here?"

"Why?" snips Quinn. "Afraid we're going to hurt you?"

Clint snorts. "There's not a single camera blindspot on this base. Have fun explaining to your CO why you attacked a higher ranking officer and a high level asset with no provocation."

The reminder of their militaristic hierarchy takes some of the wind out of their sails. Hawkeye isn't a traditionally ranking officer like Fury or Coulson, but his clearance level gives him a higher degree of respect than most other assets. And Natasha—well, her reputation is well earned.

"This isn't over," Corden insists. "You both were responsible for the death of two of our closest friends and you're walking around _free_. I don't care what you think, but you're going to have to pay for that one way or another." His voice isn't venomous when he finishes. Despite the fire of his earlier insults, this just sounds tired. Tired, but determined.

They turn to leave, and the Quinn woman can't resist throwing one last glare over her shoulder.

The door closes, the click echoing through the now-silent space.

"Sorry about that," Barton says, turning to her.

Her face looks carefully arranged to be blank. He sighs inwardly. So much for all the opening up she did today. "It's not the first time I've had to deal with enemies among allies," she answers. He feels that there's a story there, but he won't press. It won't get him anywhere, particularly not after the interruption. She looks like she wants to say something else, but holds back at the last second. Instead, she says, "Shall we move to the firing range? I feel that I have a good handle on your hand-to-hand style."

He agrees, but it feels like a loss.

* * *

Walking back to her quarters at the end of the day, she feels something like accomplishment. She learned much about the man who is supposed to be her partner, had shot a bow for the first time and had a decent handle on it, had watched Hawkeye shoot it and blow all of her scores out of the water with a cocky level of showmanship, but there's also—

_double-agent_

_traitor_

_commie_

Their words shouldn't affect her so much, she thought she was... She thought she was over with this. Being desperate for approval. Willing to do anything to gain it. ( _Earn it, Widow._ ) It's been years now since she's been out of there, since she's been on her own completing missions. She'd forgotten what it's like to desperately crave approval.

(But had she forgotten?)

( _You are pathetic. You are nothing without us. What would you do without us?_ )

( _I can make up for it. Please, let me fix it!_ )

She seems to have Agent Barton's. He's been nothing but welcoming. Kind, even. There were a few through her training who showed her courtesy, even something like companionship, but it's still...

She shakes her head as she approaches the turn to get to her room. She shouldn't be worrying herself over such trivial matters. Their approval hardly matters in the least. She's here to clear her ledger. She's here to do something right, regardless of what anyone else thinks of her.

She hears them before she sees them.

Four sets of footsteps, and she knows without looking that it's the four who approached her and Hawkeye while they were sparring earlier. She allows herself a half smile—they _had_ warned her to watch her back. They clearly hadn't anticipated just how good she is at doing so.

Just in front of the door to her quarters, she calls out, "If you want to sneak up on me, you're going to need to do a much better job than that." The footsteps do not cease. She finally turns expecting to see the angry agents led by their leader Corden, but is met by an empty hall. Her brow furrows and her body tenses. Something is amiss.

She hears the door open behind her and she knows then, exactly, what their plan was and her body jolts backwards as she's yanked into her room. She lands on the floor with a pained huff, but she knows she can't stay there for long. She tries to flip herself onto her feet, but a heavy set of hands shoves her torso back to the ground. It's Corden, looking down at her as the other three try to secure her arms and legs, but she can't let that happen.

"No cameras in here, murderer," Corden says, before she growls and lifts her body off the ground. She repeats the move she did with Hawkeye earlier this morning—lift, lift, lift, until she can wrap her thighs around his neck. She quickly catalogues where the others are—one in front of the door, and the two others on her left and right. No one by the window, behind where Corden would've been standing.

She doesn't throw him forwards or backwards like she did with Hawkeye. Instead, she twists to the side, not holding back anything, slamming Corden's head into the floor and using the pull of his weight to vault herself onto her feet.

He groans at the impact, and she backs toward the window. Quinn descends to quickly check on Corden, and Ramón and Radford remain upright and poised for attack. She drops into a fighting stance.

"You're a disgrace," Radford spits. "Pathetic."

The words lance through her heart, other words from long ago echoing through her mind. _We must never disappoint_ — _We thought you were special_ —

"Why don't you come a little closer," she suggests, "find out how pathetic I am?"

Her mind is racing, not about how she's going to manage to fight (that will be the easy part) but _after_. If they'd planned ahead enough to give her a distraction, then they'd probably prepared an excuse for their actions that would make her look as bad as possible. Perhaps they'd even killed the cameras outside her quarters.

If the sentiments about her remain as widespread as she thinks they do, they aren't going to simply take her word for it that she was attacked.

Quinn stands up, and Corden is rising slowly. "He's probably concussed," Quinn confides quietly. She turns her attention to Natasha. "You bitch."

"Afraid I'm going to come for you next?" she responds, still trying to stall for time.

There is plenty she can use in her room as weaponry (her heart is currently set on the metal bar in the closet her new uniforms are hanging on a few feet to her right), but she needs a plan.

Then she remembers. The SHIELD-issued StarkPhone. It has a camera.

But before she can figure out a way to surreptitiously activate it, they're coming at her.

She turns toward the closet and grabs a hold of the bar. It feels like some sort of burnished metal, and feels sturdy enough in the holders so that she feels at least somewhat confident it can temporarily support her weight. She turns and uses the bar to lift herself up and uses both feet to plant a solid kick square in Ramón's chest. He stumbles backwards, catching Radford and sending them both against the opposite wall.

Natasha drops back to the ground, lifts the rod out of the holders, and dumps her uniforms on the floor as Quinn comes at her.

A sharp jab with the end of the pole into Quinn's solar plexus leaves her gasping, and then Natasha jerks it sharply upwards to crack on the underside of her opponent's chin. She stumbles back slightly, but Natasha is relentless, and narrows her grip to swing more like a baseball bat and lands a punishing blow across Quinn's cheekbone.

She falls just as Ramón and Radford regain their bearings and charge at her once more.

She _needs_ to activate her StarkPhone. It sits on it's charger on her desk, all the way across the room, where a concussed Corden seems to be preparing something. But his back is turned and she cannot see what. Hopefully not a gun.

Using the rod as a clothesline, Natasha rams it into Ramón's and Radford's throats. Ramón stumbles backwards, but Radford recovers quickly and gets a hold of the bar with both hands. Natasha puts all of her weight into pulling, making sure Radford is fully committed to pulling before she simply lets go. Radford flies backwards, stumbling and losing her footing while Natasha makes a mad dash for the desk.

She shoves Corden to the side, praying his concussion will dull whatever reaction time he might have. She grabs the StarkPhone and hits the camera icon.

A pair of arms wrap around her torso and pull her away from the wall, the charger yanking the phone straight out of her hand. Natasha's back hits the ground, and her head snaps back, hitting the floor with more force than she's comfortable with. She's forcefully rolled onto her stomach, and her hands pinned behind her back. She grunts when a knee is shoved between her shoulder blades for good measure.

"Don't you dare call for help," Ramón says from above her.

She looks over at the phone, relieved to see it hanging from the desk but with the camera perfectly positioned to capture at least most of the room.

"Cordy, is it ready?" asks Ramón.

"Not yet. Fitz says that it'll take a few minutes to get hot enough."

"How the hell did you get that guy to make it for you?" Radford asks. She's recovered as well, and Natasha feels the end of the closet rod on the back of her neck.

Corden huffs. "He doesn't know what it's for. Thinks I'm really into designing brands for wood-burning art."

They all laugh at that.

Their words give her something of a hint as to what Corden is preparing. _Wood-burning. Brands._

( _Still carries the faded marks from the Chief's cigars snubbed out on the tender skin of her inner arms._ )

Natasha tries to shift her head to get a bead on where Quinn is located, but is rewarded with a sharp rap across her cheekbone with the rod.

Radford says, "Don't even think about moving."

She inhales, catches the scent of something burning and _knows_. "It's ready," Corden says. "Get her suit off."

( _The marks will fade with time, Natalya._ )

( _Enough to hurt, never enough to maim._ )

"Don't touch me," she hisses through clenched teeth.

They ignore her, and Radford drops the rod a reaches her hand inside the collar of her suit near her right shoulder. She squirms, but her prone position and Ramón's greater weight upon her back leaves her with precious few options.

Radford yanks the shoulder of her uniform down, the zipper in the front grinding and catching her skin.

Corden suddenly slams the brand down on the floor right in front of her eyes, making her whole body jump against Ramón's hold. The smell of singeing carpet assails her nostrils and she coughs. The device is hard to discern with so much of her vision impeded, but Natasha can see enough that she can figure out just what the brand design depicts.

He lifts the brand off the floor and leaves behind the burned impression of the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union.

"Everyone is going to know _exactly_ who and what you are," Corden growls.

Radford drags her suit down further, exposing more of the back of her shoulder to them.

They must've dragged it down far enough that they can see some of the scarring on her back, because she feels Ramón go still on top of her.

She takes the opportunity to try to buck him off her, but his hold quickly becomes uncompromising.

"Don't touch me," she says again, more aggressive this time.

She will not have their symbol on her.

She refuses.

They already took far too much from her.

They already scarred her far too many times.

She _will not_ have their symbol on her.

So she lets out an ear-splitting scream. "Someone help me!" She renews her struggles; if she refuses to remain still, they will be unable to get a clean brand. "Get the fuck off! Help!"

"Mateo, keep her still! Jackie, get something to shut her up."

Ramón leans down, probably to try to hold her shoulders in place, and unwittingly putting himself in range for a headbutt.

"Quarters are practically soundproof," Jackie says, her feet disappearing from Natasha's field of vision, "I don't know why we should both—"

Natasha throws her head backwards and scores a direct hit on his nose. "God, fuck!" he exclaims, rearing backwards and leaving her torso and legs without any restraint. With a groan of effort, she manages to get her knees under her enough so that she can buck him off to the side.

She rolls onto her back, and rotates her hips so to can horizontal cyclone kick Corden in the back on the head. That sends him down to the floor, and she regains her footing in time to take Radford coming at her. She sees that Quinn is still knocked out beneath the window, so one less opponent to worry about.

Radford comes at her with the closet rod, wielding it like a short bo staff. She spins it once and thrusts at Natasha's midsection. She steps to the side, blocking with a shove of her hands. She grabs a hold of the rod in her block, and pulls to propel herself into Radford, driving her knee upwards. Radford manages to block her knee, leaving her wide open for the left hook Natasha follows with. She releases the rod to press her advantage, letting loose a barrage of punches on Radford's unprotected face.

The woman drops the rod and catches one of Natasha's punches, violently twisting her arm so that Natasha has to bend at the waist to keep it from dislocating. Radford's leg flies up, catching her in the face once before Natasha manages to block the next kick with her elbow. Natasha tenses, runs forward, and leaps, back-flipping and untwisting her arm from it's compromised position. It puts her in the perfect position to get a hand behind Radford's head and throw her face at the edge of the desk.

She hits with a crack of skull meeting wood and goes down, trying to get her arms underneath her, but struggling.

Ramón slams into her side, using his size advantage to try to knock her to the ground. She stumbles back a few paces, but retains her footing.

They appear to be one on one.

Her suit is torn and half falling off on her right side. She frees her arm from the damaged confines.

Ramón is in a fighting stance, but his face says that he is anything but ready to face the Black Widow.

So once again, she presses her advantage. "You saw my scars," she says, noting idly that her Russian accent has begun to bleed through. She doesn't care. She holds up her arm, where she can still make out the faint scars from the Chief's cigars. "I already carry their marks. You think you can beat me?" she asks. "You think you can hurt me worse than they already did?" She stalks forward, at a snail's pace, but she notices his feet shift backwards. "Show me."

He doesn't respond; instead, he seems to find his courage and make the first move. A powerful muay thai kick is flying at her, and she ducks, landing a solid punch to his kidney. She quickly withdraws—he outmatches her in size, so she'll have to outmatch him in quickness and make sure he doesn't get a solid hold on her. She'd barely managed to shake him last time, and thanks her dumb luck that it looks like he has a sensitive nose.

So she makes a move to hit his face again, and lands two quick left jabs, but it gives him and opportunity to grab her beneath her arms and throw her to the ground. She grabs his hand before he can pull away, and uses it to pivot her body and wrap her thighs around him—one around his neck, the other just under his left arm.

This could either work out in her favor, or incredibly, _incredibly_ poorly.

He wraps his arms around her legs and straightens, bringing her with him up into the air, clearly preparing to pile-drive her back into the floor and hopefully put her out of commission. She tightens her abs, straightens herself as much as she can, and then throws herself backwards with as much force as she's capable of. It _works_ , and her hands come down to the ground and he's flipping over her, crashing to the floor with a grunt and an awkward roll to try to regain his footing.

He manages it, far more quickly than she'd been anticipating. Then he's coming at her with a flying roundhouse kick. She barely manages to bend backwards enough to avoid a powerful kick right to her skull. Her hands shoot up, grabbing his foot on the down-pass and the fight, she knows, is over. She turns her body as she twists his leg, dropping herself down on one knee. Her interference causes him to fall, and his knee, twisted and extended, lands directly over hers. She hears something in it _pop_ , and he yells in pain.

She's tempted to do more damage, to pull his calf up and twist further, _harder_ , punish him for what he and his friends threatened to do.

But then she hears her door open, hears crashing footsteps and agents yelling _Stop! Freeze!_

The fire of the fight in her dies, the fear that had kindled her anger and ruthlessness secedes. She'd known it would come to this, that was why she'd taken such a risk in activating the camera. But—

If she's learned anything, it's that video footage can be destroyed when certain people don't want anyone to see.

If this nebulous Council she's heard about or any of SHIELD's leadership wants her gone then... then this is the way they do it. The former Soviet spy and assassin goes rogue and beats up four SHIELD agents. Four SHIELD agents closely affiliated with the ones she'd killed in Milan. It wouldn't be hard to turn the tide against her when it was never for her in the first place.

She can only hope that this isn't her end.

She's cuffed and pulled out of her quarters and down the hall without much fanfare.

The agents drag her through the base, not bothering to avoid heavily populated common areas on their way to Holding. It's hard to pretend the unabashed staring and the quiet whispers of _I knew she wouldn't last_ and _fucking traitor, I hope they toss her in the Cube and never let her see daylight again_ don't stab through her, doesn't hurt somewhere she'd thought had gone numb.

( _Stand. Scrutinize her. Gazes like a physical touch. Raw. Humiliated. Exposed. Cadet Salevsky, do I need to write you up for insubordination? The pain_ —)

She didn't think anything could top the humiliation of that day, when she had to spread her legs and pretend she wanted something that she didn't under the eyes of her trainer, and this isn't that, but it's—

The eyes, the prodding looks and the laughing, the _I knew she wouldn't last._

It's not the same, but the hurt still burns behind her eyes and in her gut.

She doesn't resist the agents, doesn't want to give them any more of a reason to lock her up somewhere no one will ever see her again, but they're certainly not gentle with her. The two agents' hands are clasped tightly on her arms and shoulders, and they push her through the halls at a fast clip. Her hands are cuffed behind her back with these strips of _something_ she didn't recognize but had fit to her wrist in a split second and hadn't a single inch of give in them.

Holding is located close to the base's front entry. She remembers the Holding block from the Underground well, considering that's where Hawkeye originally brought her in, but the Camp's block follows the exact same security protocol. The sliding metal door with a small window at eye-level is state of the art, airtight with heavy bolting locks. When they finally—mercifully—arrive, one of the agents in charge of her swipes their ID card and inputs a retinal scan. She hears the bolts give and the hiss of air that indicate the hydraulics are kicking in, and the door slides quickly open.

She is placed in the first cell. The entire front wall is thick glass, but if she gets too close, she can feel some sort of energy field buzzing through it. The amenities are standard for a six by nine foot cell, but she hopes her stay won't be so long that she would have to use any of them. She does take the opportunity to sit on the bed on the back wall which isn't too uncomfortable, all things considered. She's been imprisoned for long periods of time before, and in far less hospitable conditions, so she simply leans her elbows on her knees, clasps her hands, and waits.

She doesn't have to wait long.

Natasha hears the airlock release, hears a deep, stern voice order, "Wait outside."

"But sir—"

"Outside, agent."

A moment's pause, a _yes sir_ , the airlock opening and closing.

She looks up to see Director Nicholas Fury standing before her with his hands behind his back. Natasha hasn't spoken to him in six months; not that their first interaction had been particularly substantive when she was still drugged out of her mind upon being first brought into the base. She'd seen him occasionally during training, observing but nothing else. If she had been a traditional recruit, then she would've graduated with her class and been given her badge by the director. As it is, she is not a traditional recruit. She still hasn't seen a hint of her being given a badge.

He's the one to break the tense silence. "You've caused quite the ruckus on my base, Romanoff." He's impossible to read. Barton hadn't told her much about him, aside from the fact that his name is Nicholas Fury, he is the SHIELD director, he has one eye, and he is "a little bit of a hardass, a lot a bit scary." She imagines that he must have been a field agent at one point. His face is still, his breathing even. His calm, quiet demeanor should remind Natasha of the General, but it doesn't.

"I didn't cause it." She pauses before adding, "Your agents seem to think I'm inviting it."

"My agents?"

"You are SHIELD's director, are you not?"

He nods, still impassive. "Indeed. I have a duty to all my agents, not just the ones we hand-pluck with exemplary records. You're a SHIELD agent now, Romanoff. My duty extends to you as well."

Natasha doesn't say anything, and meets his gaze unflinchingly.

"You don't trust me," he observes.

Natasha answers, "I've found that trust leads to people dying who shouldn't have had to." ( _I love you. I'm going home today. Shaking hands on a gun. Ma jolie fleur._ )

He answers, "Trust in the wrong place certainly can."

"And you're saying you're the right place?" she asks, sitting up enough to put her hands on her knees.

He shrugs. " _Right_ and _wrong_ are a matter of degrees in our line of work. Whether SHIELD or myself are the right place to put your trust... that's not for me to dictate."

She swallows. _We must never disappoint our country. Earn it. We have no use of a strong-willed child who cannot follow orders. Earn it. I am theirs before I am mine. Earn it._ There's the exhilaration again, that punch of _choice_ right into her gut.

But it's not as simple as she would like. She assaulted four other SHIELD agents. Natasha knows that they must be watching her closely. She's an unknown, an unpredictable variable that they are taking on good faith. If they don't trust her, her ledger will remain full and just as bloody as it was the day in Milan when she killed all those agents after her, including two of Fury's own.

She needs to try. She hopes that perhaps the trust will be returned in kind one day, but perhaps she can start here.

Build something.

Fury waits.

She tries to find the right words. "It is not easy to trust those who do not return it in kind."

"You've given every reason not to," he says. "But that does not mean it cannot be built. It starts here, and it starts with your honesty." He almost completely echoes her own thoughts, unraveling a knot of tension she hadn't realized she was holding.

She nods. "The group that attacked me approached Hawkeye and me while we were in the gym earlier today. They were clearly agitated and were saying very demeaning comments to both of us. There were at least five different cameras that would've captured that exchange as far as I could tell," she says.

He nods. "We're reviewing that now."

"At the time, it seemed Agent Barton had somewhat managed to defuse the tension, but they were clearly unhappy with leaving. I didn't see them for the rest of the day. When I returned to my quarters, they'd set up dummy footsteps to distract me, and then pulled me into my room. They were lying in wait for me. We struggled. They wanted..." She breathes once, licks her dry lips. "They wanted to brand me. They had some sort of hand-held device made by a man named Fitz."

Fury nods again. "We're investigating how they got their hands on it. Mr. Fitz is certainly not one to participate in these kinds of demonstrations."

"While we were fighting, I managed to activate the camera on my SHIELD issued StarkPhone. It should've captured most of the incident if you need corroboration for my statement."

"Yes, we know," Fury said, startling her. "The agents who jumped you forgot to consider the cameras outside of your quarters, and since you managed to turn on the camera, security was able to access it and was alerted to the situation. I saw the footage," Fury says.

Part of her wants to ask what took them so long, but she has a feeling she knows _exactly_ what took them so long. Instead, she says, "Then you know I was justified."

"I never claimed you weren't."

"Had me fooled," she says, gesturing around herself.

Fury chuckles.

 _Am I funny?_ she wonders absently.

"You will find, Miss Romanoff, that everything that SHIELD does isn't what I agree with."

Confusion clouds her mind. "You... _are_ the director aren't you?"

He seems amused and replies, "There's a difference between my agreement and my compliance. I have a feeling that's something that you can relate to."

She clenches her fists where they rest on her knees, and breathes in. Out.

Building trust.

"It is," she finally says.

That seems to settle something for him. He steps forward, and places his hand on the keypad. A few key strikes and her door is sliding open. He reaches over to grab something and reveals a black leather jacket. He holds it out to her. She realizes he's giving it to her to cover up the tears in her suit. It's... surprisingly thoughtful; she takes it and slides it over her shoulders. It's not quite a perfect fit, but it could be perfectly tailored for how good it feels.

"Sir?"

"Follow me, agent," he says without explanation, and she's not about to stay in a cell any longer than she has to.

The guards look bug-eyed as Fury leads her out of Holding, but they say nothing. She starts to understand why Fury maintains his "a little bit of a hardass, a lot a bit scary" reputation."

He leads her back the way they came, even through the common areas and this time the attention is different. Then, she understands...

She's walking directly next to SHIELD's director. No handcuffs, no ashamed hiding.

It's a display of trust and something in her rises, warms, steals her breath for a moment. Gratitude, she realizes. It's gratitude. To walk next to the Black Widow unashamed is no small task, particularly in front of all these agents who assumed she was _finally_ caught.

It's subtle but aggressively pointed, and she hides her smile until they're out of the common room and into a deserted hall.

She soon finds that he's leading her to the front entrance of the base. A store of communal jackets hang next to the door, manned by an older woman with light brown skin and raven-colored hair in a small glass security booth. She's reading a book when they enter, ( _Handmaid's Tale_ by Margaret Atwood) but she marks her page and puts it down.

"Director Fury," she greets Fury warmly. She turns to Natasha. "Agent Romanoff," she says in the exact same manner. (It's the first time she's heard it said out loud. It's always been just Agent. Or Romanoff. Or Natasha. Or rookie, or recruit, or the myriad of names she was called through training. Never _Agent Romanoff._ Like she belonged without question.) "What can I do you for?" she continues.

"Miss Crane," he greets, matching her amicability. "I'm taking this rookie out to give her an idea of the lay of the land. Shouldn't be out more than twenty minutes."

She grins. "Not a problem. Let me buzz you out."

Fury jerks his head at the wall of coats. "Suit up, Romanoff."

The both take coats, and then Miss Crane unlocks the door.

They step out to a sharp, cool breeze blowing through the main entryway. It's almost like a small airplane hangar built into a cave, with the foot entrance to the base proper off to the side, and two vehicles ramps leading up and down. The mouth of the entryway is open, but she knows from her training that there are heavy blast doors that can slam closed in less than a second should the need arise.

"Follow me," Fury says and he leads her out into the sunshine. The temperature must be hovering around four or five degrees Celcius, leading to the thin layer of snow on the ground to begin to melt. The coniferous trees around them drip with small icicles, also melting in the warm temperatures.

He leads her in silence for a few minutes until the base entrance disappears behind them. "Just through here," he finally says, holding aside some branches and letting her step through first.

He's led her to an overlook, and what lay below her could certainly qualify as a scenic vista. The sublimity of it takes her breath away for a moment.

Banded brown mountains rise up in the distance, remaining bits of snow marking the age rings of the ancient rock. Thick coniferous forest blankets the landscape, the flowing hills tumbling down to where a pristine lake shines blue. The sun sparkles off the waves with each brisk breeze that blows past, distorting the reflections of the trees and mountains. They're at least a few hundred feet above it, giving them a breathtaking view of the valley.

"What do you see here?" Fury says.

She answers, "It's... it's beautiful."

"That it is. Very few people know this lake exists. It's a bitch for most hikers to reach, and the general public has plenty of scenic fodder in easier to reach places. Perfect place for a secret intelligence network to build a secret base.

"All of this land—the lake, those mountains, the mountain we blasted our base into—once belonged to the Siksika Nation." He looks over at her. "How much did they teach you about Native American history in Russia?"

She shrugs. "Not much. I don't think they thought it was relevant."

Fury smiles at that, but it's tight, sad in a way Natasha doesn't understand. "Who controls the present, controls the past. Who controls the past, controls the future," he says quietly. After a blank look from her, he asks, "Really? You know how to kill a man with a melon baller but you don't know George Orwell?"

"I've heard the name," she says. "What you said. He said that?"

"Wrote it, actually. Now that I think about it, I'm not surprised your handlers kept you away from his writings. He had quite a bit to say about authoritarian government institutions."

A crisp breeze hisses through the branches of the pines around them, causing Natasha to pull her coat that much tighter. She's no stranger to cold winters ( _White Eagle, frozen fingers and suffocating cold and infinite blue and dead eyes_ ) but she's not about to welcome the brisk wind when she can be warm inside the SHIELD issue jacket.

"Why did you bring me out here?" she finally asks. She wonders idly if it's appropriate to ask her superior such a question—knows it wouldn't have been tolerated back _there. S_ he might have even assumed that he wanted something _else_ from her by taking her out of the base, but for some reason she just _knows_ in her bones he's not that sort of man, nor does he seem like the type of superior who would blame her for asking questions. Despite what Barton's told her about him being "a little bit of a hardass, a lot a bit scary," there's something about him that bleeds understanding and maybe something like compassion, little that she knows about either.

"Since you've been here, I haven't had the chance to speak with you. Get a feel for you."

Her brow furrows, struggling with the colloquial English for a moment before she understands. "You doubt me," she observes quietly.

He shakes his head. "Doubt isn't the same as not knowing." He shifts on his feet, pushing his hands into his pockets—settling in, in a way. "Let me tell you something, Natasha. If I didn't know much about history, I wouldn't care who this land once belonged to. I wouldn't care that indigenous peoples' ancestral land was invaded by white Europeans crying manifest destiny. I wouldn't care about the pressure put onto Native leaders to sign Treaty 7 that would essentially release all of this to Great Britain. I would just see a damn good view.

"But the history of this place," he continues, "it changes everything. Maybe it's just my point of view as a black man in a racist world, but it's hard to look past the bloody history. It's hard to look past a government that came to claim the land even though it didn't belong to them. But it was useful, and they wanted it. So they took it."

"Are you... trying to make a metaphor?"

That prompts another tight smile. "Not exactly. Just trying to point out to you that history can't be forgotten, but the past is past. We can only try to move forward." He looks over at her then. "Prove to me that you have a future here. I want to see that future, truly. But that future only happens if what I know about your history doesn't overwhelm your present."

"Who controls the past controls the future," she replies.

He chuckles. "Not quite, but you're getting there."

He then reaches underneath his jacket, into an inner pocket. He pulls out a small leather ID holder and holds it out to her.

She takes it and flips it open.

_Romanoff, Natasha.  
Specialist._

Beneath that is a bronze SHIELD crest.

"Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Romanoff."

* * *

She should've known Barton would find her.

He'd knocked on the door to her quarters not long after she'd returned from the overlook with Director Fury. She sits in her armchair, running her fingers over her new badge and her foot over the brand that had been burned into the floor.

"Hey, I heard what happened. You good?" he asks as soon as she tells him to let himself in.

She nods. "I don't think any of them were well-trained enough in close-quarters combat."

He steps up closer to her so that he can lean on the wall near her. "You sure you're good? It's... it's okay if you're not. Four of our own just attacked you."

She stares harder at the badge, the stylized eagle with its wings spread wide.

"They mentioned... earlier. In the gym. They mentioned a crest ceremony." She looks up at him. "What is that?"

He looks down, contemplative. His tongue pokes at his cheek. "There's this thing called the Wall of Valor. There's one in every SHIELD base. Every agent that falls gets the SHIELD crest with their name imprinted on the wall."

Natasha nods, looks back at her badge. "I'd... I'd very much like to go there, someday."

She hears him sigh. "Me too, Romanoff. Me too."


	3. Hold Back the Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are still with me. Onwards.

**Six Months Ago**

Admittedly, Clint could’ve planned this better. Having her drug herself in the apartment with no way to get to the extraction point without looking as though he’d just kidnapped a woman is certainly not one of his finer moments.

He checks his watch and tries to calculate how long it will take him to get to the airfield for extraction. Probably over an hour, given approximate traffic and commute times. He makes a step towards the apartment’s resident’s bedroom, hoping to find something he can wear that’s not his uniform, but he stops when he hears the Black Widow make a soft noise behind him.

Clint finds a little amusement in that. He’s seen this drug take down 300-pound men within five seconds, and yet it can’t fully knock out a woman not even half that size. 

She’s sprawled over the floor where she dropped after the injection started to take effect, her eyes twitching and her hands flexing.

“Ah, shit.” He strides back over to haul her up off the floor. She’s mostly deadweight, and she mumbles something else as he awkwardly lays her torso across the couch and then tosses her legs up as well. “I’ll be back,” he adds as he makes his way towards the bedroom once more.

The closet is stuffed to the brim with suits. Very little variation in color or style, and all a little bit bigger than what he probably should be wearing, but shit if Clint knows how a suit should properly fit. His eyes dart around the closet for something to hide his bow and quiver. A decently sized briefcase is the only piece of luggage he finds, and his uniform fits easily. He’s carrying his compound bow, which breaks down enough that it fits alongside the suit, but there’s no possible way his quiver will fit as well.

“One crisis at a time,” he murmurs, and ventures back out into the living room, his quiver in one hand and the briefcase in the other.

Clint finds the landline in the kitchen, and finds a few essential numbers taped to the wall beside the phone.

_Servicio Taxi (taxiblu) 024040_

He dials, and tells the operator in rusty Italian where he needs the cab to be delivered to. They tell him the cab should be there within fifteen minutes.

He gets out a hasty  _grazie_  before hanging up and swearing again. 15 minutes to figure out how to hide his quiver. Fantastic. Maybe he should’ve held off on the taxi until he found a way to disguise it.

Well, no changing his shitty prioritization now. He dumps both briefcase and quiver next to Natasha on the couch and goes to one of the hall closets, throwing it open in his haste, hoping to find something workable, only to find it full of rather expensive-looking men’s coats.

Clint briefly considers wearing one, despite the warm spring weather outside, and trying to pass his quiver off as a hunchback before he spots a flash of color on the top shelf. A roll of hot pink wrapping paper. Perfect.

On his way back to the kitchen, where he imagines he might find tape, Clint hastily tears a large sheet of wrapping paper from the tube and snags his quiver on his way. With all the finesse of someone who’s never wrapped a gift before, he rolls, bunches, and folds his way into something vaguely resembling a birthday present. The real icing on the proverbial hot pink cake is the electrical tape that holds it all together, the only adhesive Clint could find in any drawer in the apartment.

Clint snorts a laugh when he steps back to view his fine work. He checks the time, and sees that he has about five minutes before the cab is set to arrive.

He dumps the shitty fake present and his pilfered briefcase by the door and turns back to the semi-comatose Natasha.

“And now to get you and everything else out of here, into a cab, to the extraction point, and hopefully not get the Carabinieri called on our asses.” He nods once. “Fantastic.”

He bends down to pick up Natasha bridal style, her head lolling very un-bridally backwards and a series of indecipherable words spilling out of her mouth.

“Um, okay. Bag and arrows. How.”

Just grab them both in his hands and have them dangle under her body? Throw her over his shoulder instead and just try to balance her up there? Pile them on top of Natasha and use her like a papoose? Actually, that’s not a half bad plan, he thinks, and squats down to pluck his belongings off the floor, and flicks his wrist to get them settled on her stomach.

Natasha mumbles again.

“Well, this is as good as we’re going to get,” Clint replies, and shoves his way unceremoniously out of the apartment. He imagines Mr. Owner is going to be pretty confused about wrapping paper out on his kitchen table and the sundry but ultimately inconsequential items that are now missing.

He thankfully avoids any neighbors, and makes his way out of the building without any holdups.

It’s midday in downtown Milan, and he should’ve known he wouldn’t just be able to get her into the cab without any bypassers wondering.  _Troppo alcolico_ , he says to anyone who stops in concern.  _Mia sorella é un alcolista,_  he adds if they try to linger.

He doesn’t have to dally for long, as the cab pulls up not three minutes past when he walked out the doors. The driver parks and immediately steps out of the cab, eyeing Natasha with surprise and Clint with suspicion. “Do you know this woman?” he asks in English, apparently having that Italian ability to spot a native English speaker within fifteen feet.

Clint might not always be the best at hardcore espionage, but he can sell a story when he needs to. “Yeah,” he answers. “This is my sister, Rose. Would you mind, uh--” he gestures towards the briefcase and giftwrapped quiver on Natasha’s stomach. The cab driver doesn’t look entirely mollified, but takes the items and places them in the trunk. He carefully opens the door for Clint to ease Natasha inside.

She’s no longer making any noise, now looking as though peacefully asleep.

As Clint shuts the door, the driver is staring at him, still clearly expecting an explanation. “She’s…” He scratches at the back of his neck. “She’s been sober for two months, and then I get a call that she’s so drunk that she walked into the wrong apartment and passed out on their floor.”

( _Daddy. Daddy, wake up._ )

( _Sweetheart, Daddy’s asleep. We can’t bug him right now._ )

( _But he’s on the floor, Mama. Doesn’t he want to be in bed?_ )

“Does she need a hospital?”

Clint shakes his head. “No, I’m just going to take her home. Let her sober up and then we’ll have to talk.”

“And where is home?” The driver asks, and Clint nearly swears out loud when he realizes the huge flaw in his plan. The cab driver isn’t just going to drop them at a remote airfield outside the city, nor does Clint think that he’s going to let him just wander off with a passed out Natasha, not without Carabinieri or local PD on his tail.

He has a sudden idea, and hopes it won’t A) get him murdered or B) get him slapped or C) blow up in his goddamn face. He gives the driver the address, and adds as he gets in on his side, “I can give you directions if--”

“I know that part of Milan well,” says the driver, a veiled warning.  _I will know where to send the authorities._

They pull out into traffic, and not a minute after they leave, Natasha starts stirring again. Clint can almost feel the eyes of the driver on them in the mirror.

“Rose?” he asks. “Rose, can you hear me?” He prays she doesn’t say anything incriminating like  _where am I_  or  _who are you_.

Instead, she says something much better. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles out. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

Clint wonders if she’s just so good at espionage that she can manage to keep her cover while on the heaviest knockout drug that SHIELD produces for humans, or if she’s talking about…

It doesn’t matter, because regardless of what she does, he has to maintain his as well. He moves closer to her, bumping her shoulder with his. “Hey, just… don’t talk right now. Let’s just get you home.”

She asks, “Home?”

“Yeah, bud.”

Natasha drops her head to his shoulder and says nothing further, lapsing into silence once more.

“Are you the oldest?” asks the driver.

 _No,_  he thinks.  _I’m not the oldest._

( _Hey, baby brother, whatcha got there?_ )

( _I’m not a baby!_ )

“Yeah, I’m the oldest. She’s the baby of the family.”

The driver nods. “You seem like an older sibling.”

They continue in silence until the tall buildings begin to fall away into a more suburban area. The address Clint had given is in Monza, an outlying residential area of Milan and a popular location for families, foreign expats, and working folks who don’t mind a bit of a commute. Low apartment buildings populate the streets, far more modern than most found in the historic Centro Storico, and houses are few and far between. Spring seems to have officially sprung, with new buds on the trees blooming into great swathes of greenery in the parks and along the roads.

He’s tried to dial the number of his contact three times now, all to no avail, and he feels sharp anxiety beginning to prick at the base of his skull. If this doesn’t pan out, he’s probably going to find himself in some very hot water.

Not long now, Clint thinks. He refuses to look at the meter and tries not to think of the look he’s going to get from Coulson when he sees this on the mission expense report.

Although honestly, the mission expense report is probably going to be the last thing on Phil’s mind Clint realizes when the comatose Russian assassin twitches benignly next to him.

“My mother was much like your sister,” says the driver suddenly. “Une alcolista. It is not easy.”

( _A bottle shattering against the trailer wall. Yelling, hiding, a hand clasped around his ankle and pulling while Barney tries to hold onto his hands--_ )

“No,” Clint agrees softly. “It’s not.”

They pull up to the corner of Viale Europa and Via Marsala where a small orange house sits behind thick hedges.

He sends up another quick prayer, and begins trying to plan an escape if prayers don’t work as he lets the driver run his credit card and gets out of the taxi. If his contact isn’t here, then he’ll probably have to ditch his weapons and just make a run for it. The cabbie will probably call the cops, but if he really boots it he can maybe find his way to a somewhat safe spot. Maybe steal a car? Might be his best option because clearly public transportation isn’t going to work.

He lifts Natasha out of the car, still unresponsive, and Clint turns to see the driver with a very firm hold on Clint’s quiver and the briefcase. Planning on following them, Clint realizes, in spite of their small moment of bonding on the way here.

They step past the hedge gate, heading for the front door when it opens.

When Clint sees the figure in the doorway, his anxiety finally eases.

“Oh my goodness,” says Laura, “What happened to her? Is she okay?” His old Army CO dashes down the small walkway and places a gentle hand on Natasha’s pulse. Clint thanks dumb luck that her improvisation skills aren’t lacking, and is just plain relieved that she’s still here.

“Hey, hon,” Clint greets, “Let’s get her inside. She just needs to sober up.” He turns to the cab driver and nods toward Laura. “This is my wife.”

“Hi,” Laura greets without skipping a beat. She meets Clint’s gaze and he can tell he’ll get at least a little bit of shit for throwing her into the deep end here. “Let’s put her on the couch, sweetie.” She leans past Clint’s shoulder so that she can tell the cabbie, “Thank you for getting them home to me.”

Clint glances back the driver, who seems to have finally relaxed. “Of course,” he replies. “Get her well soon.”

“She’s a tough one,” Laura says, and then holds her hands out. “I can take those from you so you can get on your way.”

He hands them over with only a moment’s hesitation. Laura’s got a face that you can trust, Clint thinks wryly.

“Grazie,” Clint says to the driver, a sentiment that Laura echoes. The driver nods and turns back to his cab.

They hustle Natasha inside without much more fanfare and close the door.

“Well, this is a bit of a surprise,” Laura says when she turns to face Clint. “I don’t remember getting married,  _hon_.”

He rolls his eyes before depositing Natasha on the living room couch with as much care as he can muster. “It was a cover and you know that,  _sweetie_. And I tried calling you,” he says, “You didn’t answer.”

She looks sheepish. “I may or may not have dropped my phone in a Venetian canal yesterday.”

“Laura Danvers, you’re telling me that you of all people dropped your phone in a river.”

“Canal. You know I’m on leave, I didn’t think it would be that urgent that I get another one.”

“Couldn’t your sister just like… requisition an emergency one for you? She’s stationed at Fort Darby, right?”

“Carol’s Air Force, not Army, so she’s not stationed at Darby. Just consulting. And I’d also like to point out before we segue into more relevant topics, it’s ironic you’re berating me for losing my phone when I just saved you from a pretty sticky situation, as far as I can tell. And so,” Laura says, “now more relevant topics. Who the heck is passed out on my couch and how are you planning on thanking me for covering for you?”

“Um. Wine?”

“It better be an expensive vintage. And you didn’t tell me who she is.”

“Someone very dangerous,” Clint replies.

Laura’s head tilts to the side, considering. “Doesn’t look so dangerous to me.”

“That’s how she gets you.”

Laura sets the briefcase and the quiver on the floor. “Is she gonna bring the US government down on my head? You know how many damn palms I had to grease after--”

“Yes, I know,” Clint says. “And it shouldn’t bring any hammers down. On you, at least.”

Laura’s eyes flick between Clint and Natasha for a few moments. “You did something stupid again, didn’t you?”

“Marginally stupid, yeah.”

“And I’m guessing you came to me because you need a favor.”

“I need a ride to an airstrip outside the city. I’ve got a quinjet inbound in about,” he checks his watch, “40 minutes. I can direct you.”

Laura tilts her head back and lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah, let me get the car.”

Getting Natasha into Laura’s rented silver Citroen isn’t as much of a task as it had been getting her into the cab. Once they’re on their way, Laura asks again, “So now will you tell me who she is?”

Clint lets out sharp, short laugh. “Honestly, you’ll be better off the less I tell you.”

A heavy beat of silence passes between them. “How much trouble are you in? Really,” she adds when he gears up to deflect.

Clint sighs. “I’ve been trying to not think about it.”

“So, a lot then.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“You know, if you need somewhere to lay low if shit hits the fan--”

“No,” he says quickly. “I’m not doing that to you again. You almost lost your career because of me, and I’m not willing to see that happen again.”

She drums her fingers on the wheel. “And I might’ve been able to save you from the MP if I just put something in front of my career for once.”

“Laura, come on. That was years ago, and everything worked out. I’m much better suited for SHIELD than I was the Army, and you’re on track to becoming a Colonel for way more reasons than the name Danvers.”

He knows exactly where to hit her to strike a nerve, and that does it. He can see her lips tighten, and her fingers stop their incessant drumming. She doesn’t reply for several long minutes. When she finally does, she quips, “You’re fucking awful at gift wrapping.”

At first, Clint doesn’t have a clue what she’s talking about, but when he remembers his quiver he feigns indignation. “I’ll have you know I won Giftwrapper of the Year five years running at Dillard’s.”

They drift off into silence after that as the city falls away, their northeast heading taking them away from heavily populated urban areas and towards the green, mountainous region that falls across northern Italy.

Not long after that, they pull up to the helicopter pad next to a remote air strip deep in the woods near Valle Santa Croche. As far as Clint knows, it’s not exclusively used by SHIELD and many wealthy residents who live along Lake Como to the north like to be shuttled in this way instead of via car. “Thanks, Laura. As a token of my gratitude, I’ll let you tear the paper off my quiver.”

“Generous. And that’s ma’am to you, Corporal.” She reaches into the backseat and makes a show of admiring the wrapping, finding the approximately eight-hundred folds she could tuck a finger under, and finally starts to unwrap it.

“If you could pick it up a bit, I’m on the clock here,” he says.

He pokes his head out the car window, and he can hear the engines of a descending quinjet beyond the treeline.

She hands him the unwrapped quiver, which he slings across his back before hopping out of the car, and heading to the back to heft Natasha and the stolen briefcase into his arms. “You’d best get lost if you want to steer clear of the hammer that’s coming my way.” Clint chuckles and adds, “In another universe, this would probably be really romantic.”

Laura’s brow furrows. “What, really? You’re runnimg off into the sunset with another woman... who’s also unconscious.”

“The mysterious and very, very handsome man from your past needing your help and immediately dashing off again while you stare forlornly after him,” he says wryly

She rolls her eyes. “Glad that’s not in this universe.”

That prompts a laugh from him. “Me too.”

“Now get away from my car, or I’ll run you over.”

**12 Hours Later**

The quinjet hovers in front of a massive red-rock mesa, soaring nearly seven-hundred feet straight upwards into the Sonoran sky. The tabletop of the mesa spreads just under 20 square miles, the volcanic basalt and limestone layers providing heavy and adequate cover for the SHIELD base that lies within and beneath it.

The Underground was once used as a storage facility for dangerous 0-8-4s until the Slingshot protocol was established and other more secure facilities started to get the bulk of SHIELD’s tech funding. Now, it mostly functions as a residential base for freshly graduated cadets, training facility, and holding center.

Their pilot transmits their clearance codes, and it only takes a few moments for the camouflaged hangar door to slide open.

Clint’s back in his uniform and has been feeling tense since about two hours ago. Despite Fury’s and Coulson’s reluctant acquiescence to bringing the Black Widow into SHIELD, Clint has no idea what they’re going to be walking into.

 

* * *

In a way, it’s a nice feeling to be leading an op again. It’s been some time since Nick has been this involved in the nitty gritty of planning, and preparing for an ambush by the Russians feels an awful lot like the old days. The only thing that would make it more reminiscent would be if he had the incessantly cool, calm voice of Alexander Pierce in his ear.

Now the voice in his ear isn’t Pierce, but Agent Maria Hill. Fury had taken her on as an unofficial protegé years ago and has been carefully grooming her for a leadership position. Some of his superiors are leery about her age, but Nick trusts his gut, and his gut says that she’s a good one. Excepting her age, there’s nothing in her record of conduct that anyone can raise an objection to. She excels at just about everything Nick puts in front of her.

Plus, she disagrees with him. He likes that. Not many of his underlings are willing to point out flaws in a plan or outright argue on a decision. Maria is not one of those underlings.

If the rest of his career proceeds as planned, Fury plans to name her as his successor.

For now, she’s a valuable asset specializing in running complex missions with a lot of moving parts. Compared to what she’s used to, this possible Russian incursion is likely one of the less exciting operations she’s been a part of.

“Snipers in position,” says Hill over the secured comm line. She’s out on the floor of the hangar with the rest of the official welcoming party.

Fury’s perch in the hangar operator’s booth gives him a good view of the group of eight seasoned specialists who’ve dealt with everything from arms dealers to 0-8-4s in a hollow wedge formation that are planned to be the initial contact. They’re an unshakable team, which is why they’d been chosen. The medical team stands just behind them, a rolling gurney beside them ready to take the Black Widow for her med sweep. Phil Coulson is beside them, waiting for his agent to disembark so that he can give him a proper censuring. Maria Hill stands in front of them all, taking point.

Beyond them, a troupe of three snipers are hidden in the catwalks above the hangar with multiple SWAT teams choking off every viable entrance into the hangar and orders to move in on any suspicious activity.

They’re as prepared as they can be for an attack.

The revelations Agents Fisher and Coulson showed him about their Black Widow operation presented both a warning and an opportunity. The missing data is disturbing evidence that there is certainly a double agent in their midst, but it also revealed a chance to force the enemy to play their hand.

It was macabre to hope for an incursion to retrieve the Black Widow, but Fury thought that whatever insight they might gain could make this rigamarole worthwhile.

“They’ve transmitted the proper clearance codes for ‘not under duress,’” says the operator.

Fury settles his hand over his Smith & Wesson sidearm. “It’d be rude to keep them waiting.”

The hangar operator keys in the command to open the door. The mechanical rumble sounds almost like an earthquake as the massive blast doors lumber open, and in flies the quinjet as if it were any other day at the office.

“Keep your eye out,” Fury says, and turns to leave the booth. He makes his way past the team guarding the booth entrance, and all other teams part easily for him as he enters the hangar as the quinjet’s main door opens.

It’s a lot less... dignified than what Fury had imagined.

At first, he’d imagined Barton walking into a SHIELD base with a black body bag, triumphantly unzipping it to reveal the Black Widow with arrow or bullet holes through her chest. There were times after Council meetings, when they’d discussed the possibility of bringing her to their side, when he thought she’d maybe be marched in surrounded by a massive SHIELD security team. She’d always struck him as the silent type, quietly surveying and looking for any opportunity to create an escape.

Instead, Clint has the Russian assassin slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She makes a sound of protest. A long, moaning protest that dies off when Barton snaps, “Oh my god, just be quiet.

“Sorry,” he adds as Fury comes to a stop next to Maria Hill, “I’ve been stuck on a plane with her for the last twelve hours. Between her and the dour mannequin in the pilot seat, the conversation has not been scintillating.”

The agent who Barton refers to, the young Grant Ward, follows not far behind and doesn’t seem prepared to respond to the jest.

Barton takes in the scene before him as he steps off the quinjet door to the floor. When no one moves, he shifts the Black Widow on his shoulder. “Does medical wanna take her at some point, or…?”

“You followed protocol?” Agent Hill asks.

Barton seems to rein in a sharp retort before responding with a stunning amount of professionalism, “Yes ma’am. Last administered drug protocol six hours and thirty seven minutes ago.”

The Widow mumbles something unintelligible again.

Fury eyes Barton. “Are you sure on that count, Agent?”

It looks like Barton might have an aneurysm from suppressing the eye roll. “She’s a superspy. Drug resistance training. She’s ninety-nine percent out of it.”

Another moan.

“Okay, maybe like ninety-five.”

“Sir,” Hill says quietly, “There’s been no movement. Teams aren’t picking up anything out of the ordinary. No unauthorized movement on base exterior, either.”

A few tense seconds pass. Barton looks between Fury and Hill, confused about their exchange before he seems to put the pieces together and understands. “Those dicks nearly blew us to pieces,” he says, then looks pointedly at the med team waiting in the wings.

Fury nods. “Take her.”

The medical team rolls their gurney up to Barton who grunts as he drops the Widow onto the thin mattress.

As soon as Barton is clear, Coulson grabs his arm and drags him a few meters away. A preliminary ass-chewing, Fury would assume.

As the med team begins to strap the Widow down and get her hooked up to vitals monitoring, she starts to mumble with a little more force and coherence. “Lemme go,” she says. She starts to arch weakly against the restraints.

“Oh shit,” Barton says and starts to pull away from Coulson.

“We’re not finished-” Coulson snaps, louder than Fury has heard it in a while.

He walks backwards towards where the med team has started to wheel her away. “She asked me to not let her kill anyone when she wakes up.”

“Oh, fuck me.” Nick’s most poised handler scrubs a hand across his face and turns to follow the departing medical team.

Fury leans over to his second in command. “Keep snipers in position for now. Send two SWAT teams covering the entrances to clear a path to medical and send the rest to choke off all entry points.”

Hill immediately switches comm channels to the correct frequencies, delivering his orders efficiently, then turning back to him. “Done.”

“Good. With me,” he says with a cock of his head. Fury follows behind the medical team at a leisurely pace, simply surveying and maintaining his patience. The Widow has quieted again somewhat; from where Fury stands, he can see Barton saying something to her but isn’t close enough to hear the words.

“If they were planning a way to get her back,” Hill says, voice slow and curious. Puzzling it out. “The hangar would’ve been the easiest place to do it. Direct escape routes, lots of infiltration points, open sightlines.”

“We’ve been anticipating a full-on incursion. It’s hard to believe their agent is unaware of our knowledge, so that’s what we were preparing for.”

“A blaze of glory showdown,” Hill finishes.

Fury nods. “I think their strategy is more nuanced than we’ve been giving them credit for.” The duo picks up their pace after the medical team as they exit the hangar and enter the main hall leading to the med bay. “Maybe we’ve been anticipating the wrong kind of attack.”


End file.
